


A Beautiful Mess

by Enochianess



Series: Dirtiest white boy in America [8]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: A Beautiful Mess, Anger, Asshole Terry Milkovich, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Canon Related, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode Related, Gunplay, Guns, Intoxication, Jargon, M/M, POV Mickey Milkovich, Physical Abuse, Protective Mickey Milkovich, Season/Series 02, Short, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:00:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4385795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochianess/pseuds/Enochianess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 2 Episode 4 - Mickey focused</p><p>Mickey wants to run to Ian, just like Ian had when Monica showed up. But he knows he can't go to him with this shit. He knows Ian would be happier not knowing the details, not seeing the aftermath. It's not fair to burden the kid like that, even though Mickey knows Ian would listen, Ian would help. It's not fair. None of it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Beautiful Mess

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get enough of Mickey Milkovich and I don't think his side of the story was explored enough on the show, so I'm writing his story canonically episode by episode and adding and expanding upon the scenes as I see fit (And yes, this does include smut, because their kiss and sex scenes were virtually nonexistent). All the works will be named after the episodes in the show.
> 
> *Gives you the bird because we're in the shameless fandom and this is the best way of expressing my affection and love for you all*

"Who pulls  _hair?_ Mickey, what the fuck?" His sister yells from where she's hanging off his back, arms tight around his neck. 

Mickey yanks on a fistful of strands with a smirk, wincing when Mandy puts more pressure against his windpipe.

He can hear Iggy and Joey shooting at each other on the Xbox, shouting out every profanity they can remember. He kind of wishes they'd come and give him some backup. It was always harder fighting with Mandy. She fought dirty and scrappy, and Mickey was always too worried about actually hurting her to use his full strength to ward her off. It was easier when his brothers were there so they could pin her down until the rage subsided. Mickey blamed Terry for the short temper fuse they all seemed to be burdened with. There was always one of them raising hell and tearing up the joint. 

There's a loud bang as the front door is thrown violently open, the walls of the shabby house shaking with the force. Mickey and his siblings all immediately fall silent, Mandy's arms tightening around him but now with an entirely different intent. Mickey feels as his sister begins to shake.

"Disrespectin' me! In my own fuckin' house!" Mickey hears his dad yell. He can imagine the way spit would be flying from his mouth, the way he'd be breathing hard through his nose like a bull.

"Get the fuck off me." Mickey whispers to his sister, his voice gentle despite his words. He's almost resigned to these violent episodes in his life at this point. He walks into them now like a man going to the gallows.

Mandy drops to her feet, curling in on herself slightly as if it'll make her safer. Mickey wished it was that simple.

"Stay here." He orders lowly, trying to give her his best reassuring smile. He knows its futile.

Mandy nods and turns to stare out the window. Mickey knows it's so she doesn't have to watch him leave.

"Dad! Fuck- _stop! Please!"_ One of his brothers yells. He thinks it might be Joey.

There's a loud bang as someone is thrown against a hard surface. It makes Mickey's blood run cold. 

Mickey steps into the living area, into a painfully familiar kind of madness. Iggy is cowering, curled up in the corner of the room, trying desperately to give his body what protection he could. Terry is purple in the face, his arm rearing back. Mickey can see from across the room the way his dad's body is shaking, the power coiling in his muscles readying for the attack. He wished he knew how to stop it.

"He's trippin' on a bad batch of Coke, Mick! I swear, we ain't done nothin'!" Joey yells, hands fisted in his curly hair, flinching at the sound of Iggy's helpless blabbering.

"Get outta here, Joey." Mickey says quietly.

Joey dithers for a second, looking between his two brothers, eyes watery, and then nods.  _One down, one to go,_ Mickey thinks to himself. He dashes forward and grabs at his father's bicep, intercepting his punch. He feels the way his dad pauses, practically hears his intoxicated brain ticking, and then Mickey can feel Terry's muscles twitching beneath his hand. He's prepared for the way his dad whirs on him, but not for how quickly he does so. Terry's mouth curls sadistically and Mickey really wishes he can stop the slight shaking that begins in his hands. 

"Iggy hasn't done anythin' wrong, dad." He says, bravely keeping eye contact. He always figured it was safer to watch the expressions playing across his dad's face. At least that way he could guess whether to duck, run or swing.

"That right, huh?  _Son."_ Terry replied, spitting at Mickey's feet after the last word. 

Mickey gulps and can't help the way he looks down, an irrational wave of shame washing over him. 

Suddenly, Terry lashes out and sends a fist flying, the sharp knuckles colliding with Mickey's side. Mickey hunches over, his eyes squeezed shut and the breath knocked out of him. He tries to stand upright again, but there's a sharp smack as Terry backhands him, Mickey's head snapping to the side and throwing him off balance. He hits the floor hard, a gasp escaping his throat at the pain in his beat-up ribs. He thinks maybe something might be broken. He's not sure he can remember the last time he didn't have a broken rib.

"You're fucking pathetic!" His dad yells, kicking him hard in the stomach. He does it again, and again, and again, quickly building a rhythm. 

Mickey grunts at each blow, tears running uncontrollably down his face, his arms wrapped over his head. He's not sure whether he's actually crying or not. He can't tell. He's in too much pain to know much of anything.

And then, the hits stop coming, the pain ebbing but not intensifying. He pulls his arms down hesitantly, glancing up to see what the hell had Terry pausing mid beat down. He notices the way Terry's eyes have gone unfocused and glassy, his body seeming to go limp. Mickey rolls away quickly, anticipating the way his dad then slumps to the floor unconscious. Mickey looks up, wheezing a little, at his sister holding the neck of a now broken bottle. He hadn't even heard the shattering of the glass. Mandy is breathing heavily, her mascara running down he face. She looks tiny and Mickey's throat closes up at the sense of deja vu he feels. Shit, Mandy really did look like mom.

"We gotta get the fuck outta here before he wakes up." Mickey says quietly, his voice hitching when he tried to sit up. 

"I hope he never fucking wakes up." Mandy snarls, but she reaches down and helps tug Mickey to his feet.

"You okay there, Iggy?" He calls over to his brother.

It's obvious the answer is no. Iggy's eyes are wide with the trauma of the whole thing. Mickey limps over to his brother, one arm wrapped around his bruised middle, and bends down in front of him.

"Come on, man." He says softly, clapping a hand on Iggy's shoulder. "You're okay now. We gotta go."

Iggy nods shortly and stands. "I- I didn't do nothin'." He mumbles.

And it kills Mickey to hear the way his brother says that, his voice so unsure as he tries to wrack his brain for what he could possibly have done to make his dad so mad. He hates that Iggy always falls into the mindset of a frightened little kid after their dad goes off on one. But, knowing that Iggy needs him to take charge right now, to take care of him, he just says, "I know." 

There's nothing else he can do. There's no comfort he can give.

 

Mickey wants to run to Ian, just like Ian had when Monica showed up. But he knows he can't go to him with this shit. He knows Ian would be happier not knowing the details, not seeing the aftermath. It's not fair to burden the kid like that, even though Mickey knows Ian would listen, Ian would help. It's not fair. None of it is. 

 

Mickey feels better the moment he's got a gun in his hand. He's at his usual spot under the L, firing round after round at the target's head. He wishes it was Terry's head instead, but that's nothing new.

"Gearing up for bank robbery season?" Frank calls over the screech of the passing train.

Mickey glances at the old man briefly, the smell of piss and beer filling his nostrils. 

"I don't have any whippets, Frank. Saw a couple spray paint cans behind the liquor store you could huff." He says exasperatedly.

He's not really in the mood for the fucker's woe-is-me, needy shit. He's not selling anything today and if he had any whippets, Mickey would've huffed them himself. Fuck knows he needed it. Not that he'd get so much as a hit of nitrous if they had any laying about though; it was Mandy's favourite and she always threw a hissy fit if Mickey stole it.

"Why do you think I want something?" Frank asks, sounding offended.

"You're breathing."

"Hoping to gank a couple rounds of ammo from you." 

Mickey takes a long sip of his beer and glances at Frank. 

"Who you hunting?" He asks curiously.

"Trying to scare off a neighborhood dog."

"Yeah?" Mickey smiles widely at the old man's response. "Anybody I know?"

He's distracted when Frank pulls out his gun, eyeing the model enviously. "A fucking Luger? That's sweet, man."

"It was my father's."

"Hey, I don't think they make ammo for that anymore."

"Ah, come on, just one cap." Frank says, bending down and picking up a single bullet.

"What do you mean one cap? Slugs are specific to each gun, Frank. It's not a fucking mix and match." Mickey tells him. The fucker was thick as shit when it came to guns.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah." Frank mutters, walking away as he tries to load it into the barrel.

"Guns ain't garanimals." Mickey calls to him, holding his own gun in both hands and aiming at the target again.

"Look at that. Perfect fit." 

Mickey rolls his eyes and then pulls on the trigger. One eye. Two eyes. Forehead. Heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I do not take credit for the dialogue from the show; I have simply used it to aid my own story and exploration of Mickey.  
> The credit for those parts goes deservedly to the writers.
> 
> Feel free to contact me: http://enochianess.tumblr.com


End file.
